


First Kiss

by The_Kapok_Kid



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Attraction, F/M, First Kiss, Parvati is beautiful, dean is a gentleman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2015-01-31
Packaged: 2018-03-09 20:06:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3262697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Kapok_Kid/pseuds/The_Kapok_Kid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twenty one years old, and never been kissed. It’s not something Parvati likes to think about. Of course, there had been the occasional fling, and a few halfhearted attempts at kissing…</p>
<p>
  <em>Parvati Patil / Dean Thomas.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> Reposted with changes from a drabble collection.

_Twenty one years old, and never been kissed._

It’s not something Parvati likes to think about. Having been solidly single for the past few years is just adding insult to injury. Of course, there had been the occasional fling, and a few halfhearted attempts at kissing…

Terry Boot in third year; he’d been eager to kiss at first, then chickened out when it came to the actual event, and left Parvati smooching the air over a cup of strawberry tea at Madam Puddifoot’s.

Ivan, the Durmstrang bloke from the Yule Ball who’d kept in touch for all of two weeks before disappearing; his method of kissing was to breathe heavily in her face and rub noses rather vigorously. Not particularly attractive to a girl of fifteen.

And Lalit.

She hadn’t expected her month-long visit to her hometown to toss up any romantic surprises, but she’d popped into Scrivenshaft’s Delhi branch for a new peacock feather quill, and there he’d been. It wasn’t love at first sight – Parvati wasn’t as naïve as all that – but the tentative smiles, short coffee dates in corner shops, and the leisurely strolls along the river had awoken the faltering beginning of attraction in her, and she’d hoped that _this_ time, it would work out.

It hadn’t.

Lalit had been intelligent, charming, and good-looking, with his black curls and crooked smile, but what Parvati didn’t know was that he came from a very traditional Indian magical family. She often wondered at the lack of physical contact; he was free with gifts, compliments and flowers, but he never touched her, never held her hand, he never kissed her. She didn’t know about the bride until she saw the marriage announcement, complete with a picture, in the local paper one morning. The dainty witch bride was a demure little thing, dressed in red and gold and very much bedecked with jewellery, eyes lined with kohl and face turned away from the camera. And there stood Lalit, arms around his new wife, a proud smile on his face.

All in all, Parvati was quite glad to return to England and take up her apprenticeship with Firenze.

But it does make parties such as these rather lonely. It’s the annual Dumbledore’s Army get-together, and this is only the first time Parvati is attending – having been dragged here by Padma – since the inaugural function the year the war ended.

She leans against the wall, out of the way of the dance floor – oh, how times have changed; in the past, she would be the first one dancing – and looks about her. She spots her best friend and tries to catch her eye, but Lavender is too busy, hanging off Anthony Goldstein’s arm and giggling at his jokes, the high, ruffled collar at her throat covering the marks impressed there by Greyback and the last war. Seamus is dancing nearby, twirling that red-haired Irish bint about with laudable enthusiasm. Even her sister is occupied with that Kohli boy she met at a Quidditch match, a slick-looking, rather foul-mouthed young man with feline features and an arrogant air. She dislikes him, but says nothing, because she dislikes hurting her sister more. Everybody seems to be paired up, and she feels left out, wishing she could melt into the wall behind her.

The winter wind, sweeping in through the open French windows blows cold against her skin, and shivering slightly, she moves the fall of her blue georgette sari close against her. From the corner of her eye, she can see the frosted mistletoe above her head unfurl and grow, casting its blue creeping fingers slowly towards her. She starts away from it, then shakes her head, and, smiling slightly, moves back into position. _After all, there’s no one to kiss._

“Hello, Parvati,” says a kind voice behind her, and Parvati turns so suddenly she gets a crick in her neck.

It’s Dean Thomas, erstwhile classmate and fellow-Gryffindor. She hasn’t seen him since the end of the war. He’s grown even taller now, and the boyish features of his face have matured into fine cheekbones and a strong jaw. It looks good, especially paired with those ever-honest eyes, but she notes with a frown that he is thin and that his dinner jacket is frayed at the elbows. He has lines on his forehead and around his eyes.

“Mistletoe trying to trap you?” He asks, glancing up at the ceiling. “Bothersome little bugger, isn’t it?”

“Yes it is,” she laughs. “Not like there’s anyone around to kiss, though,” she adds.

His gaze flickers for a second, then steadies. “Indeed,” he says, but his smile is slightly strained.

Silence falls, and it is her turn to speak, but she knows not what to say. So she waits, and hopes he will think her merely shy, and not rude.

“So,” he says, awkwardly clearing his throat, “what have you been up to, all these years?”

Oh, nothing much. Went back to India for a spell, and now I’m doing an apprenticeship with Firenze…”

“Ah. And is Mars bright tonight?” His lips twitch.

She laughs. “Not very. Rather a peaceful era in store for us, I’m afraid.” She cannot cast her gaze away from those eyes. “And – what are _you_ doing at the moment?”

He shrugs. “A short course in Magical Art at the Ministry School. Might go into portraiture if I feel like it.”

She smiles politely and nods. She’s never understood art herself, but Dean had always been quite brilliant at it. She can still remember that time he forged her father’s signature when she forgot her Hogsmeade form in fourth year. She wants to say something nice, but her brain is most unhelpfully blank.

“That’s a nice tie,” she offers at last, feebly. “Er – unusual colour, that shade of turquoise.”

He smiles, glancing at the tie in question. “Thank you,” he says, with genuine pleasure. “I painted it. Money to buy nice things are hard to come by for a poor student like me.” He trails a finger down the material. It’s thinly layered, standing away from the base material, each layer of paint shining through the one after it. “Nice impasto, if I say so myself.”

_That explains that dinner jacket. But what in Merlin’s stinky left sock is an impasto?_

“Er, yes, nice impasto,” she agrees. “And er – nice fresco sico too…” she waves a hand vaguely in his direction.

He laughs delightedly, the sound bubbling joyously from his lips. The lines around his eyes disappear momentarily. “You should stick to Divs, Pat-Pat,” he says teasingly, using her old Gryffindor nickname. “Leave the painting to me.”

Silence falls again, but now, it’s comfortable, somehow. She feels more cheerful, and Dean does not leave to hunt out Seamus, as she half expects. A tray of butterbeer floats towards them, and the Weird Sisters strike up a slow waltz. They tap their feet to the beat, and watch the couples revolve before them.

“Not dancing, then?” Dean ventures eventually. “You used to like it a lot, if I remember correctly.”

“No partner.” She shrugs. “Haven’t done much in the dancing line for the past three years, to be honest.”

“I see.” He tilts his head, thinking. “In that case, Miss. Parvati Patil, would you do the honour of dancing with me?” He bows and holds out a hand.

She’s taken aback, but not unwilling. The music is good, her feet are lively, and she’s been lonely for too long. To say nothing of Dean, who’s a gentleman if ever there was one.

“I accept with pleasure, Mr. Thomas,” she says, and smiles when he slips a hand around her waist and leads her on to the dance floor.

They dance gently for a while, and she counts the steady _thumpthumpthump_ of his heart, just beneath where her head rests on his shoulder. The breeze ruffles her sari skirt again, and Dean trips over her fall, and straightens himself with a stifled oath. She laughs and catches him by the arm. Once, she’d have abhorred his clumsiness, but now she doesn’t mind. It’s natural, and she likes it. She’s lived with superficiality for too long.

She swings around to face the French windows on a turn, and sees the mistletoe again. It’s branched out even further, and now hangs barely a foot above her head. The sprigs shake in the breeze, and cast down frosty drops of dew on their heads.

He stiffens, and she knows he’s noticed it too. He doesn’t stop dancing, but leans down, and whispers, very low, “and is it a very long time since you’ve kissed, too?”

She does not quite know what to say, but whispers it anyway: “no.”

“No?” He raises an eyebrow, even as he swings her around gently on the next turn. “So you’ve kissed recently, then?”

She shouldn’t answer. She should avoid the question, give a quick and light riposte, but something compels her to answer anyway. “No,” she admits, very low. “I er – haven’t kissed anybody before, at all.”

His hand is gentle on her waist, and so is his expression. “Would you like to have a go, then?”

“All – all right,” she answers hesitantly.

And then his head dips down, and suddenly, his lips are on hers, and _oh Merlin, she’s reallyreally kissing!_

It isn’t the sexy, ecstatic moment she expected. His lips are warm, dry and slightly chapped, and they fit perfectly against hers. Instead, it’s a soft, bright, glowing sort of feeling; a comfortable fire that starts in her heart, and spreads its luminous fingers outward, warming her from fingertips to toes with a gently growing, intense elation.

It last just a second, and they bump noses and heads rather roughly when they resurface, and laugh.

“Well?” He asks, breathlessly. His eyes are alight, and she feels own grow brighter in answer. “How was it?”

“Not bad…good, actually,” she admits. “Different to what I expected…but better, I think.” She looks at his flushed cheeks. “Have you had much practise?”

“Nah,” he says, smiling fully now. “That was my first time too.”

Parvati raises an eyebrow. "Surely not, for I believe you were with Ginny for sometime, a few years ago?"

He smiles and raises his own eyebrow in turn. "And I believe I don't have to explain how impulses from the soul are different to impulses from the body, hey?"

She laughs with him, for yes indeed, she has come to understand the difference very well.

He leans forward again, and cocks his head to the side. “Would you like to try again?” He asks.

“Yes,” she replies simply, and follows suit.

 

 


End file.
